Fine Art, Vol 2: Office at Night by Edward Hopper
by Fleur27
Summary: Nate will never cheat on his wife, but it's fun to tempt him all the same.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing here and am just doing this to pass the time until Season 3 starts.

**Spoilers:** None. Set pre-series, about six years. Nate is married to Maggie and Sam is healthy.

**Painting: **Edward Hopper, Office at Night, 1940, Oil on canvas, 22 1/8 x 25 inches

.

**A/N:** Part two in a five-part series of one-shots focused on three of my favorite things: Nate, Sophie, and art. Special thanks to my brother, an art school graduate, for helping me pick this painting and for supplying all of the smart observations about it. Any mistakes are my own, because as the older sister, it's my birth-right to ignore him sometimes. :)

* * *

Nate arrived at her room while Sophie was still getting ready. He always claimed that he was just punctual, but she thought he had it confused with "obsessively early." She crossed the small hotel room in three long strides and opened the door.

He greeted her with a smile and then walked in casually. She shut the door and returned to the mirror, which was hanging over an antique desk. Nate leaned against the wall, watching as she put in delicate pearl earrings, which matched the triple-stranded pearl choker she was wearing.

He'd told her that he needed her to play the part of old British money, which she had interpreted as an understated, timeless elegance. Her black velvet dress was figure-hugging yet comparatively modest, her make-up was more suggestion than reality, and her hair was swept up in a classic French twist.

"Well?" she asked, turning a circle and a half.

"Perfect," said Nate, walking toward her. "Well, almost perfect."

He reached out and took her left hand, slowly sliding a large princess-cut diamond ring onto her finger. Sophie suspected that it must be fake, since they were conning a shady art collector, not a jewel thief.

"'Til con do us part," she said to Nate with a wink, unsure if his reaction could be categorized more as a strained smile or a grimace.

"Ready?" he asked, offering his arm.

She slipped her hand over his elbow and they made their way out of the hotel and into the night. A crisp wind blew in from the lake and Sophie pulled her mink stole more tightly around her neck.

"By the way, nice fur," said Nate. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that theft at Fields last week, would you?"

"That was a brazen smash-and-grab, not a grift," she said, her tone suggesting that such common thievery was beneath her. She looked up at Nate, ready to burn two holes right through his forehead when she saw his grin.

"Easy, I'm just practicing. I'm going to be a real bastard, remember?"

"I remember," she replied as they walked up the art museum steps. They paused to check their coats, then entered the party. It was the opening night cocktail reception for the museum's Edward Hopper retrospective, tickets by special invitation only.

Nate zeroed in on the mark then leaned into Sophie and pointed him out. Late 50s, elegant and poised with a shock of black hair, which she suspected required some intervention to maintain its color. After picking up wine glasses from a passing waiter, they skirted around the edges of the reception.

"How did you know he'd be here?" asked Sophie.

"Hopper's his favorite artist. And looking for things he can't have, then finding a way to get them, is his favorite hobby," replied Nate.

They casually made their way into the mark's orbit, pausing occasionally to study a painting. At each stop, Sophie would make an educated and insightful remark while Nate would respond with a belittling wisecrack.

Nate had devised these personas for maximum effect, playing a hunch that the mark wouldn't be able to resist an educated damsel in distress, especially one with a keen appreciation for Hopper.

They paused in front of _Office at Night_, Sophie's eyes raptly taking in the image while Nate fidgeted beside her. When he tried to move her along, she planted her feet and refused to move.

"What? You've looked at it. Let's go," he said.

"No, I love this one. Just give me another minute."

"Why do you love this one? It's just two people working late. Where's the art in that?"

She gave him a look that was equal parts incredulous and impatient. His boorish behavior may have been just an act, but it was getting on her nerves rather effectively.

"You don't see it?" she asked, challenging him.

Nate pinched his chin and stared at the painting, his eyes practically doing a grid search. When he finally spoke, his voice was bored and indifferent. "See what? It's still just two people working late. No magic or mystery there."

"Geoffrey," she sighed. "There, right there, near the corner of the desk, on the floor."

"Oh, looks like she dropped a piece of paper. So she's clumsy. Big deal," he replied, moving onto the next painting. Sophie caught his hand and pulled him back, aware that they now had the definite attention of their quarry.

"Look at her, in that tight dress," said Sophie, her voice all silky seduction as her fingers trailed lightly up his arm. "Her boss sitting only a couple of feet away from her... she's thinking about picking up the paper... thinking about how much skin she'd reveal... thinking about the propriety of it."

"The propriety of picking up a damn piece of paper?" said Nate, but she could hear a tiny catch in his voice and knew she was having an effect on him.

"Think about it. It's 1940, the social mores were a lot different then. And even today, this could be a charged situation, co-workers, maybe one of them married, empty office, nothing to stop them."

Nate nodded his head as he considered her words. "Fine. This time, you might actually have a point. But I still hate Edward Hopper. Guy's a hack - can't paint people to save his life. Look at those eyes. They're just black voids."

"Did you ever think that Hopper was painting the eyes that way on purpose, to heighten the sense of disconnection and alienation?"

"Nah, I just don't think the guy can paint eyes. And you're not going to convince me any different," he replied with a wink only Sophie saw.

Acting on the signal, she pushed past him in a frustrated huff, her sudden movement jostling his glass, spilling red wine down the front of his shirt. He grabbed her arms and gave her a fierce shake, snarling about how she better hope that she hadn't just ruined his best shirt.

He stalked off and Sophie paused for a moment, staring after him in stunned chagrin. Tears gathered in her eyes and she tried to pull herself together before shakily walking out, aware that the mark was following her. She found a quiet corner out by the cloakroom and leaned against the wall, pressing her cheek into the cool marble.

"Excuse me, Miss, I hate to intrude, but are you all right?"

Sophie turned slowly. The mark held out a handkerchief, which she gratefully accepted and used to daub at her eyes.

"I am... or at least I will be," she replied. Over the mark's shoulder, she could see Nate give her a broad smile before disappearing into the men's room with a small bottle of club soda.

"I'm Michael Stanley," said the mark, extending a hand, which Sophie gingerly accepted.

"Charlotte Wentworth," she replied, using the name that Nate had supplied.

"It's not my place to say, Charlotte, but that fella of yours needs to learn how to treat a lady properly."

Sophie looked down and bit her lip, acting flustered and uncertain.

"Especially a lady who knows art as well as you do," he added with a charming smile.

"He... has his good points. His job is rather stressful, you see, so sometimes he just snaps, but he means well, really he does," she replied in the earnest tones of a woman trying to convince herself.

Michael pulled a slim silver business card and a gold Cross pen from his pocket. He eased out a card, wrote something on the back in careful block letters, then handed it to Sophie.

"That's my card, along with the name of the best dry cleaner in the city. Although what you should tell your fella is that it's much easier to replace a piece of cloth than a beautiful woman."

Sophie took the card with a grateful smile. "You're very kind."

"You call me any time. We can talk about art," he told her with a wink, then walked away, leaving her holding his handkerchief. She breathed a sigh of relief. Nate would be happy that phase one was completed in record time, with minimal difficulties.

---//---

They'd been slow-playing the mark for two weeks, first a chance encounter near his work, then a meeting for a coffee, followed by a few phone calls during which Sophie confided her conflicted reluctance to stay in the relationship. Finally, all the dancing around had paid off.

The mark had invited Sophie over for dinner at his house the next day. Nate had insisted on a little reconnaissance mission, which Sophie understood. However, she didn't understand why they were still sitting in Nate's rental car three hours later.

Sophie stretched as much as she was able in the cramped subcompact. She straightened up in the seat and crossed her legs, her skirt inching up her thigh. She was about to pull it down when she felt Nate's eyes on her legs.

"I just don't understand what we're still doing here," said Sophie. She unzipped her purse and took out her nail file.

"Learning things. Gathering information. Formulating plans," replied Nate. Except for taking a small notebook out of his pocket, scribbling a few notes, and tucking the notebook away, she didn't think he'd moved in the last three house. His preternatural focus and never-ending attention span were unsettling.

"Nate, this is really boring."

"Yes, Sophie, I believe you've mentioned that a time or two already this evening," he said.

Needing distraction, Sophie began filing her right index fingernail, which had been looking a bit worse for wear recently.

"Seriously? You're doing that now?" asked Nate, his tone suggesting that she was murdering puppies.

"What? There's nothing else to do."

"Can you please stop? That's not an activity suited for polite company," said Nate.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're leaving dead flakes of nail and skin all over my car."

"Rental car," said Sophie, on general principle.

"Still, I'd rather you didn't do that here. Please."

Sophie put the nail file away with a frustrated sigh. She was tired, cranky, and sick of being cooped up in this small space. Uncrossing her legs, she shifted her weight until she was facing Nate, her knees primly tucked together. She propped her elbow on the back of her seat and let her arm fall casually toward his seat.

"Getting comfortable?"

"It's bloody impossible."

"Well, Soph, I never promised you a rose garden," said Nate, his voice quiet and half-distracted.

She let the words hang in the air for a moment before responding. "My god, Nate, is this what being married is like?"

"What?" he asked, turning toward her, confusion wrinkling his forehead.

"Is being married like this? Like being trapped in a subcompact rental car, no chance for escape, drowning in boredom?"

He chuckled and shook his head.

"What is it like then?" she asked.

Nate closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't know... it's like a warm, comforting blanket that you always know is going to be there. Peaceful and predictable routines."

"That doesn't sound very romantic."

"What did you think marriage was like? Running over rooftops in Paris and fairy tale romance?" asked Nate, leaning his head back against the seat, close to where Sophie's hand was.

She shrugged. "I don't know what I thought it was, not that though."

"I'm not going to lie to you, it can be hard work sometimes, and maybe a little boring, but all of that is outweighed by the benefits."

Without thinking, she let her fingers brush against his hair where it curled against his shirt collar. "Aren't you ever tempted?"

"To do what?"

"Rob a bank... what do you think?"

Nate looked into her eyes, but stayed absolutely still. It should have been uncomfortable, should have forced her to look away, but it didn't. And yet it wasn't an invitation either. It was like a glimpse into his heart and she found herself unable to look away.

"I think you know the answer to that already," he finally said as he sat up straight and started the car.

---//---

Sophie was dressed and ready a half-hour before the arranged time, just to beat Nate at his own early game for a change. When he knocked on the door, she pulled it open and walked out with her coat already on. She was a few steps down the hallway before she realized he wasn't following her.

"Slight change of plans," said Nate, waiting for her to return to the door.

"Of course. The one time I'm actually ready, you change the game," she muttered softly as she walked back to the door, rummaging around in her purse for her keycard.

Back inside the room, Sophie pulled off her coat and leaned against the desk. She was wearing cool colors, primarily beige and blue: a fluted wool plaid skirt that swished easily around her knees, a tailored blouse, and a cashmere cardigan.

"Well?" asked Sophie, eager to hear the new plan and just get on with things.

"You're going to have to wear a wire," said Nate, pulling the device and some tape out of his pocket.

Sophie considered balking. She'd never worn one before and was worried about the mark finding it. But then, the whole thing looked rather small and unobtrusive.

She nodded and started to undo the buttons on her blouse, laughing when Nate automatically averted his eyes. She shook her shirt open slightly, relieved that she was wearing one of her best bras, black with an elegant edging of lace.

"I'll just leave you to it then," he said, dropping the wire on the bed.

"Uh-huh. I've never worn one before and I'm going to need your help," she said, enjoying that he was flustered. Nate Ford had chased her all over Europe and the Middle East, caught her three times, divested her of millions of dollars worth of merchandise, and shot her once. It was amusing to see him knocked off his stride by a few open buttons.

"Right, well, in that case," mumbled Nate, approaching her slowly.

When he stopped, he left a few feet of space between them. He set the wire on the desk and ripped off a few pieces of tape, sticking them to the edge of the desk. All the while, he spoke softly, explaining how the device worked, and he kept his eyes firmly on his hands.

"Ready?" he asked, looking up at her for the first time. She met his gaze and nodded. He stepped up close to her, the smell of aftershave and peppermint nearly intoxicating her. Sophie turned her head, opting for the once-removed sensation of watching the mirror as Nate's hands gently and deftly taped the wire to her skin, then buttoned her shirt.

They both stepped away at the same time, instantly putting several feet of space between them. Realizing that she'd been holding her breath, Sophie exhaled and smiled at Nate, who was blushing and looking down.

"You'll be able to hear everything I say but I won't be able to hear you? That hardly seems fair," she said, a joke to break the tension that was stretching through the room.

"You'll just have to imagine my voice in your head. Now, I'm going to go down the hall and we'll test this thing."

Sophie waited a few minutes, then put on her coat. Just before she opened the door, she spoke softly, telling him the only thought she'd had the entire time he was taping the wire to her chest. "You have very soft hands, Nate."

She opened the door quickly, hoping to catch his reaction, but he was too far down the hall.

"It works, let's go," he called out to her, all business. Sophie pulled the door shut behind her, reminding herself that she had a job to do.

---//---

The evening at the mark's house was a delicate dance for Sophie, who was painfully aware of the wire and thankful that the mark was something of a gentleman. Although his hand lingered at her back as he guided her into the dining room and he often touched her hand to punctuate his points, that seemed to be the extent of his handiness.

She smiled and blushed her way through dinner, playing the coy ingenue trapped in a difficult relationship. She let the mark cast himself as her escape clause and hung on his every word. They talked mostly about art, Sophie quite happily and naturally talking about Degas as if he were a dear old friend.

The wine flowed freely but Sophie minded herself, taking opportunities to empty her glass into the potted plant in the corner. As they finished dessert, the mark's cheeks were ruddy and his laughter was just a shade too loud.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality," she said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "But I really should be going."

"So soon? But the evening's just getting started. Please stay a little longer."

She bit her lip and looked down, counting slowly in her head. When she got to seven, the mark spoke again.

"C'mon, Charlotte, there's something I have to show you. You're going to love it. I promise," he said, extending his hand.

With a small show of hesitation, Sophie took his hand and allowed him to pull her through the house, past the living room, and down a long hallway to the last room. It was exactly as Nate had described, with a keypad and cameras.

"What are you keeping in here? Aliens?" she asked.

"Better, Charlotte, much better," he opened the door and motioned for her to walk through first.

It was a simple box room, the lone window covered with a sliding metal shutter. On the walls, perfectly lit, hung eight masterpieces. Different artists, different styles, but somehow the work hung together coherently as a whole. It was a perfectly curated collection and Sophie's gasp of amazement was real.

She focused first on the Degas, something she had stolen years earlier and fenced nearly immediately, as much as it had pained her to do so. She also recognized the Cezanne that hung next to it.

"Michael, this is amazing," she said, breathlessly. "Although... I thought this one was stolen some years ago."

"Stolen is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as liberated," replied the mark, moving close behind her, his breath hot on her neck.

"Liberated?" she repeated with a nervous giggle.

"Yes, Charlotte. Liberated. Taken from a life where it wasn't properly appreciated, and then added to my perfect collection, where it's properly looked after and taken care of and loved," he said as he reached around and touched her chin, pulling her head around to look at him.

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers and she turned around, playing the part and allowing herself to melt into him momentarily before pushing away abruptly.

"Michael...I can't..." she said, stumbling backwards.

"He doesn't deserve you, Charlotte. Truly he doesn't," replied the mark.

Sophie took a deep breath. "Can you excuse me? I just need a moment to pull myself together. Where's your bathroom?"

"Second door on the right," replied the mark, slipping his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall. He wore the smirk of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

In the bathroom, she locked the door and then leaned against it, finally allowing herself to relax for the first time all evening. Movement at the window startled her until she recognized the face. She crossed the room and opened the window.

"What? Did I do something wrong?" she asked, annoyed.

"No, you were great. Even better than I'd hoped. C'mon, let's get you out of here and then I'll collect the art and we'll be done."

"Nate, I'm not climbing out the window in a skirt. Can't I just leave through the front door like we planned?"

"Sophie, Michael Stanley is not exactly a man who takes 'no' for an answer. Now c'mon," he said impatiently, reaching out his hands.

She sighed and eased her upper body out of the window, surprised when Nate firmly gripped her waist. Her hands automatically grabbed his biceps for balance. He lifted her out and gently set her down on the ground.

"See, nothing to it," he said, his hands still on her waist. She looked at him and could feel the current passing between them. She could barely breathe, barely move, barely think.

"Soph," he said, regret in his voice and she jumped back, stumbling on the uneven paving stones. Her heel caught and broke, leaving her wobbling on one foot. She looked down at the beige heel, which stood out against the dark slate.

With a sigh, she kicked off her shoes and leaned down to pick up the heel, but Nate's hand on her wrist stopped her. He crouched down and picked up the broken heel and her shoes, handing them to her while looking down, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled, then left her staring after him when he disappeared through the open window.

Sophie made her way to the car slowly, picking her way along the uneven stones and then cutting across the damp grass, which tickled her bare feet. Nate had left the car unlocked for, so she sat in the passenger seat and waited.

A few minutes later, Nate skipped down the steps of the mark's house, carrying two large portfolio cases, which he deposited in the trunk of the car. When he got in the car, his face was lit up with excitement.

"Not only did he have the Degas and the Cezanne, he also had a Gainsborough and a Picasso. Sophie, I couldn't have done this without you. You're definitely getting a bonus on this one."

"Shoes," she said. "I want shoes. Three pairs, plus a replacement pair for the ones you broke."

"Deal," he said, extending his hand.

"I'm not talking about the Shoe Warehouse, either," she said, shooting him a warning look. "Real shoes. Expensive shoes."

"I didn't figure that you were," he said with a knowing smile.

"And you're shopping with me."

He groaned. "Seriously? Why?"

"Because, I had to suffer to help you recover that art. Seems only fair you should suffer equally."

Nate sighed but nodded his agreement.

"Deal," she said, shaking his hand. She saw him wince and then looked down, noticing the bruises already spreading and swelling his knuckles.

"Nate, did you hit him?"

Nate half-shrugged and started the car. "Even a guy with soft hands can land a punch or two, when needed."

Sophie wished she'd been there to see Nate knocking the smirk off the mark's face. But she'd have to settle for what she had now: the promise of shoe shopping and future work.


End file.
